


Alive and Kicking – CMBYN Big Bang 2019

by Glendaa



Category: Actor RPF, Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Publishing, Boys Kissing, CMBYN Big Bang, Charmie, Crema, Enemies to Lovers, Italy, M/M, POV Armie Hammer, POV First Person, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:15:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21660658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glendaa/pseuds/Glendaa
Summary: Armie Hammer works at a small publishing house in Crema, Italy.Not only is his job at risk, a certain Timothy *insert weird surname here* is his new boss, intent in making his life Hell.With the Christmas holidays approaching will they wring each other's neck or will they turn from enemies to lovers?
Relationships: Timothee Chalamet and Armie Hammer, Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Comments: 85
Kudos: 142
Collections: CMBYN Big Bang 2019





	1. Douche on a pink Vespa

**Author's Note:**

> Excited to be part of the CMBYN Big Bang 2019!!!!
> 
> Enemies to Lovers is the theme I chose (never done that before).
> 
> Magazine publishing is my real life job here in Northern Italy. I bet, and hope, someplace else things are better for printed media. Armie is grumpy as I am for the situation - but things can and will be better. Fingers crossed!
> 
> This is a work of fantasy. Names, characters, institutions, places and episodes are the result of my imagination and are not to be considered real. Any resemblance to facts, scenarios, organizations or people, living or dead, true or imaginary is completely random. (sorta ;-))

Publishing is a dying industry.

I know it, you know it, everyone knows it. And if they say otherwise, they are deluding themselves or lying to their stakeholders. Or both.

Print is a zombie dragging his rotting carcass in search of the next meal that will allow him to survive a bit longer. It’s silly and pointless but… whatcha gonna do?

You think books are doomed? Well then, magazines are fucked. Royally fucked. Fucked nine ways to Sunday.

Nobody reads mags anymore - contouring videos on YouTube are way funnier, or so it seems - and the few that do are too lazy and entitled to want to pay for the privilege.

“3,50 euros for a magazine? I can find infos ON EVERYTHING online. FOR FREE”.

_Assholes!_

Of course that’s my line of work. I’m lucky like that.

To be honest it’s because I’m nostalgic as fuck and don’t really care much for money anyways.

I only have myself to support, and my dog Archie.

Wife’s left me for a bigger fish when it became apparent I wasn’t ambitious enough.

Luckily there were no kids to be dragged into a nasty divorce. Our marriage didn’t last enough for that - she was not one to lose her ‘best years to a naïve nerd’.

My family and friends in the US don’t understand why I keep living here. Truth is, I fell more in love with this Country than with my wife. With her native town than with her red hair and plump lips.

Ah, Italy!

Think magazine publishers suffer? Well, here it’s the worst. Take my company, for example.

The original founder, and owner, was still warm in the casket when his two children started to fight for the future of the publishing house.

Based in sleepy Crema, while ‘real’ business is in Milan or Rome, debt-ridden, offering publications better suited for the 80s than the roaring 20s starting with the New Year… it was no surprise the heirs wanted to fire everyone and get rid of the decomposing carcass.

Which is a pity cause I like my baby very much. ‘Orobie’ is the mag I saved from a sudden demise and turned into something quite appreciated by fellow mountain aficionados. Sure, MTB riders, birdwatchers, skiiers and trail runners are a small readership niche but loyal and…

Ok, who am I kidding. Nobody cares about readers if advertising revenues suck and every issue might be the last. _Fuck._

So it came as a surprise when some guy, who had worked as part of this company’s management in the early 90s, popped up out of nowhere to buy the company and save our asses, proclaiming he would turn the publishing house around.

We were too flabbergasted to smell sulphur - Marisa, the executive secretary, who was sure would end up having to forcibly retire, bought the biggest spongarda she could find at Radaelli’s and we scarfed down the rich, spicy cake as if we’ve been touched by an angel that told us ‘breathe, it’s not your time yet’.

It took us all of a month to notice that the new owners - a husband/wife duo that wouldn’t have been out of place in a lousy mafia movie, and that insisted on managing the whole company themselves - were complete douchebags and, more worringly, totally inept at their job.

So when Marisa told us that they had decided they needed a manager after all, with more hands-on experience to help them with the company, everyone turned towards me with hope in their eyes.

“It’s you, Armie. They will choose you!”

“You are the most qualified for this role. You know the company inside-out”.

“Dottor Quaroni loved you and what you did with ‘Orobie’. He wanted you to-”

“Quaroni è morto”, I told them. “These people are quite different animals. We’ll see”.

~

Actually, I love the idea.

And I know that I could do better than our asshole bosses. Way better.

Well, anyone with half a brain and a willingness to work could do better than them.

Apparently they found also an intern, an American guy - “See, you won’t be the only one anymore”, Carlo says to me - to help with social media and PR.

Timothy Something… a weird surname.

As I sip my coffee before work - today’s the day they’ll announce the new manager - I ponder on what to say. Of course I’ll act surprised while everyone claps.

I have so many ideas, hope the new dude will help me with those.

I hop on my bike and wave Gianni goodbye - best coffee in the whole piazza if you ask me - as a douche on a bubblegum-pink Vespa cuts me off before speeding away without a second thought.

I almost fall and smash my head on the cobblestones.

The “Vaffanculo” I shout doesn’t faze him - without turning his head, he flips me the bird and I think he’s lucky I’m such a calm individual because if someone else had somehow gotten in possession of my climbing picket… well the douche’s Italian flag Vespa helmet would make a perfect dartboard.

Blessed Bach Flower remedies that Marisa insisted me to drink before the big day! Being convicted for murder wouldn’t look good on my curriculum. Especially not today.

In the meeting room, we all wait for the arrival of the bosses, too tense to chitchat much.

As they enter - she overly made-up as usual, bosom in full view, he drowned in headache-inducing aftershave - they are followed by a young man, chestnut curls and striking peridot eyes.

I’m getting distracted by his pink lips when I suddenly recognize the lanky body, oversized jacket and, above all, damned helmet he has in his grip.

 _That’s him._ The asshole that cut me off in the Piazza.

He glares at me, having apparently recognized me as well.

Oh, this is going to be fun. Now that I’m the manager, the asshole intern is gonna pay-

_What?_

The room has suddenly turned extremely silent - everyone is looking at me, gauging my reaction.

It’s then that I notice that the flag helmet is on a nearby table and handshakes are being exchanged.

Not with me. With him.

Timothy Something is the new boss.

MY new boss.


	2. "I’m a softie, ok?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys start interacting and it's not fun. Then, on a cold December night...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Armie is grumpy. But won't be for long. So... please don't shoot at me.  
> I love France and French people!  
> Paix et amour! <3
> 
> PS For those of you reading my other fics, this week I'll update BOTH. Thanks so much for your lovely patience!

  


Do you know that movie?

The one with De Niro playing the intern to an obnoxious young woman who thinks everyone over 35 is basically already dead or at least on the cusp of extinction - like a dinosaur looking cluelessly at the sky while a meteorite hurtles towards him at the highest speed?

Ok, Bobby is seventy-something in that flick - and still sharp as fuck, if you ask me - and I’m a millennial myself but… you get the gist. I identify with the dear boomer over my new boss any day.

The fucking asshole.

The pretentious arse.

Take his name, for example.

“It’s Teemo-tay Shall-ah-may”, he points out as everyone is already butchering his oh-so-aristocratic-sounding French pompousness of a name.

You see, Italians often perceive French people as arrogant and cold. And while I’m not one to adhere to silly stereotypes, I wonder if they are onto something here.

Otherwise, how would you explain the fact that dear, thick as a brick Graziella came out of his office sniffling and dabbing at her eyes?

Of course he had to go and tell her that her embroidery-and-needlework mag subscribers are slowly dying out and that her ‘baby’ is not fashionable enough to attract gen Z diy-ers.

Which, by the way, is what we all think, but he had no right to be so harsh.

That’s the kind of bullshit that’s allowed only between family members – which we are, sorta. And he obviously is not.

Or how about that time our Sara - Luna Lovegood’s long-lost twin, we reckon, editor of ‘Cuccioli’ our bimonthly publication on everything pet-related esp. of the fluffy kind _although even a Komodo dragon is somehow fluffy to her_ \- tried to coax him into eating with us at the company canteen and he rebuffed her with ‘managers cannot get too friendly with subordinates, otherwise they can become too soft and then _can't_ discipline’?!

Seriously? Who the fuck does he think he is?

Ask my father how his discipline went down with me when he discovered I was a poof (his word, not mine). The front door still bears the signs of my rage. _Ah!_

Luckily for the Frenchie, Sara is too sweet for her own good and just patted his shoulder with a “Oh, povero tesoro” before leaving.

“It’s the bidet thing”, my colleagues tell me. “If you don’t use a bidet…” they shake their heads with a mix of pity and disgust as if the absence of a ceramic basin for washing genitalia tells you everything there’s to know about the character of a Nation and its citizens.

I nod glumly, not wishing to reveal that in the US the bidet is as unheard of as in France. Wouldn’t want to fall in disgrace over a plumbing fixture.

~

I’m having my blessed espresso in the piazza - they have put up the funghi, as they call them, heaters to warm the outdoor area at Gianni’s (it’s already chilly but no one wants to give up on sipping coffee while looking at the Cathedral’s centuries-old bricks, I mean… who would?) - when I hear the damned Vespa approach.

Leave it to the weasel to discover this is THE place to go for an espresso to die for.

He takes off his helmet, shakes his curls and notices me, starts walking in my direction.

_The fuck? No way!_

I drain the bitter elixir in one go, scalding my tongue, and I’m on my bike before he can say Teemo-tay.

Hey, not very mature, I know but… whatever.

  


Of course, as soon as he arrives at work, he summons me to his office, wants to talk about ‘Orobie’.

How its being our bestselling mag is not enough, how the market has changed and we have to engage more on social media, offer more video content etc etc

He’s right, ok? I know it, but I’ve always been alone in this.

A small publishing house means being a true workhorse - running to press events, testing MTB gear and trails during the weekend all by myself, writing articles, editing and proofreading them, answering to emails, managing the website and Insta and FB…

So to have him enumerate everything that’s still lacking feels like adding insult to injury.

“I was told you’d be the one to help us with that”, I tell him. “But it looks like you are only here to criticize and offer no actual solution”.

He sets his jaw. “It’s not my fault this company is in way worse shape than what I was expecting”.

I arch my eyebrow. _I can’t believe the nerve._

“Oh, is it?”, I ask, venom lacing my words. “Well we are lucky then to have such a wise, experienced manager to set us straight”.

He glares at me. “What’s your problem, Armie?”

“It’s Armand for you”.

He flips some papers. “Well, here it says your name is-”

“You almost killed me and never apologized”.

“Geez, sensitive much?”, he retorts. “It’s you that almost made me crash. Too busy waving at Gianni to bother with checking the road before-”

“What? I was on a bike, you on a scooter”, I spit. “You-”

“So? Do road codes not apply to you?”

I hiss an “Asshole” before I get too distracted - it’s the first time I’m properly looking at his stupid face after all.

It’s a pity he’s such an arse ‘cause the man is indeed beautiful. Sharp jaw, soft looking lips, mesmerizing eyes and… wait, are those freckles?

“Dick”, he retorts drily.

“You didn’t ask, but I want to give you a piece of useful advice nonetheless”.

Teemo-tay crosses his arms against his chest.

“This is Italy. You’ll catch more flies with honey than vinegar”.

The pouty jerk looks at me, unperturbed.

I sigh. “You want people to give you their best? 24/7? Be friendly, ask them about their families and hobbies…”

“That would be utterly inappropriate…”, he mutters.

“Take that stick out of your ass, Timmy. It will do you good”, I wink.

“This IS utterly inappropriate”, he hisses, deep pink coloring his cheeks.

“Well, you are stuck with us and-”

“Not necessarily”, he glowers.

Wait, has he just threatened to fire me and/or the whole lot of us?!?!

_Prick._

He needs a lesson, I nod to myself, as I envision throwing the pile of paperwork on the floor, bending him over the desk, ripping his pants off and spanking him til my hand hurts.

I almost see him squirm under my harsh touch, tears rolling down his flushed skin, dick leaking on the wooden-

_Fuck._

_Oh, fuck._

All of a sudden my pants are tight, too tight - gotta leave before I make a fool of myself.

I slam the door for good measure.

  


«« »»

  


In the weeks that follow, tension is palpable between us. But it seems he pondered what I said.

I notice him talking to Marisa quite often, listening intently at her. She’s the soul of this place, as secretaries often are, and she seems willing to help him settle in his role.

After a couple editorial meetings - to which he participates keeping his mouth shut and taking notes - he starts offering his opinion on matters and not everything he says is stupid.

_Well, nothing he says is actually stupid._

Of course he tries to steer everybody’s efforts towards either stuff that pays the bills - that feels like selling-out to older people, _insert my eye-roll here_ \- or, and that’s way more interesting _imho_ , experimentation to find new ways to meet consumers’ digital needs.

_Bingo! It just makes sense._

Innovation is inevitable, and crucial, if we want to try to survive. Moreso in a small publishing house in such a small town.

As we process all that, while still working on our usual production schedule, though, something weird starts to happen.

It’s Teemo-tay the one who gets summoned to the CEO/owners’office. Over and over again.

And, by the sound of it, it’s not nice.

Guess what? Embracing a startup mindset - testing new ideas, seeing what works and what doesn’t etc - means making room for failure and not being necessarily concerned about revenue. At least for some time.

And… the devilish duo that owns our butts is not so keen.

Trouble in paradise already, Teemo-tay?

_I wonder why I’m surprised._

~

It’s almost 7pm on a grey Wednesday when I leave the office.

The early December night is cold and wet. Can’t wait to get home and snuggle with Archie on the sofa - he with his disgusting chewable bone toy, me with a beer and a bowl of pretzels.

As I turn the corner to go unlock my bike, I see a slim figure crouched on the pavement, his back towards me. Dark curls peek out of a grey beanie.

_Of course it’s him._

I shudder as I notice that I would recognize Teemo-tay everywhere.

He’s crawling around on hands and knees - phone in his hand, flashlight on - as if looking for something.

I cough and he startles before whipping up his head. “Armie, good, help me please”.

I almost tell him to go fuck himself when I see the pleading look in his eyes - and the dirt on his face.

I’m a softie, what can I say.

“Looking for your long-lost soul?”, I ask as I crouch near him and try to peek into the darkness.

He rolls his eyes. “There’s something here. Crying. Possibly hurt”.

I hear nothing. “Listen, I bet you are stressed, you should-”

“No, listen”, he says grabbing my arm.

“I don’t hear-” and then I do, a soft, distressed mewling coming from somewhere near, but nowhere in sight.

I turn and leave.

Timothée’s Italian has quite improved judging by the string of colorful insults he throws at me. When I return with a tramezzino and start to pick out the tuna flakes, he blushes.

“You could have told me. I thought you had left and-”

“Left behind a stray cat? Alone with you? It’s not his fault he met such an asshole on such a cold night!”

He shakes his head and goes back looking for the animal in pain. Between the two of us we manage to find him stuck into the lower half of a gutter.

While he shoves tuna bits towards him to try and coax him down, I focus on the hidden hangers at the elbow. Thanks God it’s a sectional and having hands as big as baseball mitts comes in handy (pun intended).

The furry thing is scared by the loud noises and scoots back, trapping himself more. Luckily I can finally grab him by the tiny butt and deposit him in Vespa owner’s hands - covered in tuna smell - that the filthy kitten starts licking in earnest.

Teemo-tay laughs, a wheezy affair that is quite nice if I’m being honest here. I look at him as he pulls the scarf from his neck and covers the stray with the soft wool. He brings the kitten to his face, whispering soft nothings to him, and the furry thing starts purring.

He looks so young, I notice, and I wonder why I haven’t noticed before.

His eyes are bright with joy at the affection the cat is showing him and I think that he himself probably feels lonely and lost as the stray, so far from home.

I don’t know what comes over me, but I lick my thumb and drag the wet finger on his dirty nose and cheek.

He’s perplexed but lets me clean him up. I croak a “Follow me” as I lead him to the pet store a couple blocks away.

As the shopkeeper coos at the kitty - “a girl, it’s a girl” she grins and it’s like Frenchie is a father all of a sudden - and sells him everything he needs “you won’t take her to the pound, right?! Right?!”, I text my vet and schedule an appointment for the next day.

When all is said and done, I notice how gently he lowers the new - pink, of course - carrier near his feet, how carefully he checks left and right before nodding towards me and speeding away.

And if I remain freezed on the spot, looking at the Vespa til it disappears from view, it’s just because I care for the kitten, ok?

It’s not her fault she met a Teemo-tay on such a cold December night.


	3. Of boys and fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, this is it!  
> Hope you enjoy the last chapter of my CMBYN Big Bang 2019 fic. 
> 
> I may add an epilogue, but not in time for the Big Bang ending so I don't know how that would work.  
> Tell me in the comments if you'd like that and what you think about my take on 'enemies to lovers'.
> 
> Happy holidays! <3

Thank goodness, winter holidays are around the corner.

2019 was a shitty year, according to me and almost everyone I know, and I need a vacation like yesterday.

BTW A two-week paid leave is one of the reasons I’m reluctant to leave Italy. The job market may suck in this Country but for these people family - and food to be honest - still comes first.

No matter what your situation is, at Christmas you’ll need time and energy to wrangle relatives and festivities. So, you’ll have it. It’s as simple as that.

Fourteen blessed days to drink, eat and be merry, ready to start tolling again after la Befana.

Italians don’t know how lucky they are. We Americans on the contrary… Well, let’s just say that seeing how disheveled Teemo-tay is looking right now, he’ll love the local way of doing holidays.

Oh, yeah, in the past weeks he’s been busy.

I don’t recall a day when I’ve arrived at work without him being already there or left without seeing light still peeking from under his closed door.

When I pass him in the hallway, I notice his skin is quite pasty, he has dark circles under his eyes. Looks like he hasn’t been sleeping properly for some time and has lost weight as well.

He is also covered in cat hair, but that he dutifully brushes away with one of those travel lint thingies any time he notices.

I see him talking often to Marisa and Carlo, of the administrative office, especially when the owners are not present. They look like a trio of conspirators and, while I’m as curious as a monkey, I feel too old for this shit. _Que sera sera._

Of course, being the softie that I am - as I’m leaving work and he’s still here, tonight as yesterday and the day before - I feel it my duty to try and offer him company.

I knock at his door and enter. He’s looking outside the window, twirling something colorful and feathery in his hands.

He notices my inquiring gaze and shrugs, points to an open Amazon box full of cat toys. “It’s Christmas”.

The little bugger got lucky, I reckon. Who would have thought the asshole would turn out be a softie too?

“Listen, wanna grab a beer? It’s aperitivo time at Gianni’s and-”

His eyes go wide as he hisses a “No” that startles both of us.

“I mean, I have to go home to Pepper and-”

“Of course”, I swallow and turn, closing the door behind me.

My hands turn into fists as I berate myself. I’m such an idiot. Don’t know what came over me.

_That’ll teach you, Hammer. An asshole is an asshole is an asshole._

~

After more than an hour of intense running and playing fetch with Archie, a scalding hot shower and a belated wank _gosh I needed that_ I’m perusing the contents of my fridge when I hear a knock at the door.

I’m not waiting for a delivery, so I think it’s probably my elderly neighbor who usually asks for sugar or milk as soon as I’m in the shower - I wonder if she’s purposely trying to see me in my birthday suit - but Archie, who was passed out on the sofa, is suddenly very much alert, sniffing and rasping at the door.

I open and have barely a moment to take in the scene before my eyes - _wtf, a cat on a leash?_ \- when mayhem ensues.

Said cat, well, kitten, arches her back and hisses, swipes a paw to Archie’s nose - that Mr. Lion-heart dodges with a jump before cowering behind my legs, whining - and proceeds to climb up her human with such angry disdain that flocks of the puff jacket’s interior start peeking out of the tiny holes she’s leaving in the grey textile.

Of course that leads to a stunned Teemo-tay getting entagled in the hot-pink leash - I’ll have to talk to the young man about the heteronormative, genderconforming attire he dresses his tabby cat with, _I mean, seriously?_

It’s like a scene straight out of a vintage Disney movie, so of course he stumbles and falls on my chest with a huff - left fingers tightly gripping a couple of pizza cardboard boxes, right hand clutching a bag that by the clinking sound has beer bottles inside.

The kitten hisses from the top of his head and I snort - in that position dear Teemo-tay looks like a wonky Christmas tree with the most adorably growly asshole of a treetopper.

Archie goes insane, barking at the top of his lungs and I see from the corner of my eye the pizza cartons slowly slipping from Teemo’s hand.

 _Well, that won’t do._ Wasting pizza is a horrible crime so I step to the rescue.

“Archie. Sofa. Now!”, I growl and he dutifully obeys, tail thumping ritmically on the cushion as he hopes to get aquainted with the tiny, furry creature he found at the door.

“Stay still”, I tell Teemo while I steady him and grab pizzas and beer to deposit them on the kitchen table. I check all windows are closed and shut the doors to the bathroom and bedroom before going back to my ‘guests’.

I grab the kitten and unclasp her from the leash, then I proceed to unravel the long nylon cord from the body trembling in front of me.

 _Uh?_ I tilt the asshole’s chin towards me and I see his eyes are red-rimmed and glossy, tip of the nose and cheeks a dark pink.

“Uhm, hi?”, he whispers. “I brought pizza”. And that’s when I notice he’s positively tipsy.

_Great. Just great._

Still with the kitten in hand, I invite him in and as he starts toeing off his shoes I try to decipher what the cat is wearing. It’s a sort of puffy coat harness _who knew they did this shit for cats?_ and as soon as I free her from it, she runs through the living area, goes straight to Archie, hisses to him and promptly hides under the record player.

I snort at the puzzled expression on my dog’s face, when I hear sniffling. Teemo-tay is wringing his hands, one shoe on, the other off, revealing a candy-cane striped sock that a part of me wishes to peel away to reveal what I’m sure to be an elegant, slim foot.

_Ahem, focus Armie. Focus!_

“I don’t know why I’m here. I shouldn’t-”, he hiccups and I’m not ready _like, at all_ to have him cry before me.

“Hey, hey, just sit on the sofa, ok? Be right back”.

Luckily he obeys and Archie proceeds to lick his face while I grab a glass of water and plate the pizza.

“Drink. Eat”, I bark as I notice how tired he looks and ask him if he has eaten anything today.

“A banana for breakfast” is his answer and I shake my head. “Just eat”, I repeat and he does, hungrily devouring a couple slices.

He’s brought it from the place not far from my flat, and it’s still warm and most of all it’s the real deal, true Neapolitan style deliciousness. It will do us both good - with a full belly everything’s manageable.

“I shouldn’t have barged in here. I’m so sorry, Armie”, he looks at me sheepishly. “It’s so inappropriate of me. I shouldn’t have looked for your address in the company files, it’s not right. I… I probably should go”.

“It’s fine. Finish your pizza, Tim. There’s no rush”.

He seems surprised that I don’t want to throw him out of my flat, nods and seemingly relaxes for the first time.

“I wanted to say sorry for being an arse, you know, and I thought I would bring a peace offering. But while I waited for the pizza I thought you’d probably be mad at me and just send me away with a vaffanculo so I thought to have a beer to relax a bit but then it was two beers and-”

“Breathe, Tim. Also, you shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach. And go a day with only a piece of fruit as food”.

“Yes, dad”, he rolls his eyes but then blushes as if the word has hit him in a very different way.

_Oh, ok... Ahem._

“So… What’s going on with the cat on a leash?”, I ask to diffuse the tension.

“Oh, fuck”, he gasps, “Pepper? Pepper? Where-”

“She’s over there” I point to the pair of yellow eyes peeking out from under the console.

To be honest, I would have called her Chupacabra seeing her temperament, but I guess Pepper can do.

Teemo-tay starts a tirade about how cats need to have the chance to go out and interact with nature, that they can be trained to accept an harness, although much depends on the feline personality, yadda yadda yadda.

“I didn’t know you had a dog”, he says.

“Well, you would have known if you had asked me anything about me before barging in here and-”

 _Fuck_. There are tears threatening to spill from the corner of his eyes and he’s doing his best to not give in.

“Hey, hey. Come on”. Great, now I feel bad and want to hug him to my chest. _Watch your mouth before you talk, Armie._

I ask him as softly as I can what’s going on.

“This is not what I expected”, he croaks. “At work, I mean. I was told they needed a social media manager with experience in publishing. I studied Graphic Design. My father is a journalist and my mom is a theater agent that dabbles in writing as well so… yeah… I know something about the publishing industry and social media and-”

“Never mind”, he curls his fist under his chin. “I get here, very happy for the opportunity, and discover the owners want me to take a much bigger managing role. I have no idea how that works so… I research, I read books. I try my best to be a fucking manager but… I do it all wrong. And now everybody hates me and-”

“Marisa and Carlo talk to you a lot”.

“Sure”, he sighs. _It’s just work._ _They don’t care for me_ is what he is implying.

“I don’t understand these people. The owners I mean. It seems like they want me to fail. Everything I suggest is not good enough or too far-fetched or…”

“You mean it looks like they want the publishing house to crash?”

He looks at me befuddled. “Yes”.

“You mean they are constantly spending money as if the company were their personal piggybank, with no regards to profit margin and growth? Like they would actually be happy with bankruptcy?”

He pales. “You noticed?”

I nod. “Everyone who’s been working here for some time knows there’s something weird going on. No offence, but you wouldn’t put such an inexperienced man in such a critical role-”.

His shoulders slump. “I guess you are right. I only succeded in alienating everyone and-”

“Listen. Yeah, you came up too strong, a bit arrogant but… what you said about our company, its weak spots… you were right. You are right”.

“There’s something bigger going on here and unless we have a clear picture it’s stupid for us to fight against each other. We should be alllies not enemies, don’t you think?”

He nods and bites his lip. “What if it’s too late?”

I shrug. “As long as we are alive there’s always time”. I’m smiling to the asshole, a real smile, for the first time.

“Tregua”, I say, extending my hand.

He shakes it, smiling in return. “Tregua it is”.

“I have ice-cream in the freezer. Gianni’s”, I wiggle my eyebrows.

“Chocolate?”, he inquires.

“Pistachio!”, I holler. “The best you’ll ever have. And while we eat, you have to tell me everything about the devil incarnate that’s your kitten”.

He chuckles and so it begins. Our night-long chat about everything and nothing.

We evict Archie from the sofa - he ends up snoring in his own bed with Pepper chewing on his ears - while we eat ice-cream straight from the tub.

“I don’t believe you at all”, Tim says waving the spoon at me. “You play the cynical guy, fed up with his line of work but I notice the passion you pour into ‘Orobie’, how kindly you interact with your readers. You are bullshitting me Armie”.

I blush because, yeah, I may be sarcastic and annoyed but there’s no other work I’d love to do. I try to salvage my standoffish persona telling him that work is work and I only do it to fuel my true loves – namely Archie and the outdoors.

“And?”, he asks, reading right through me. “What else, Armie?”

I chuckle - no one knows this about me. “Ho un romanzo nel cassetto”, I tell him. “Well, a couple to be exact”.

“What? Wow! You are a novel writer? I mean, of course you are an editor but-”

“Yeah”, I shrug. “I prefer poetry, though”.

He looks at me open-mouthed. “Can I read something?”, he goes to grab his phone to try and google me.

I stop him.

My hand covering his… well, it ignites a spark of something in my belly and I know he feels it as well, judging by the pink that spreads on his cheeks.

“We are in publishing, right?”, I wink as I go to the bookshelf and grab the slim, green booklet. It’s from an indie poetry festival in Tallinn, nothing major but it’s work I’m proud of.

He flips through it until he finds my name among other poets. I observe him read, in focused concentration, tip of the tongue slipping from his lips. I’m mesmerized.

I know which poem he’s on when he turns towards me, a soft gaze that is an embrace.

“This is powerful”, he says. “I love it”.

I nod my thanks.

It’s weird having someone you know - well, sort of - read your poems, seeing that you have been fully vulnerable for once, in written word, relying on the fact that no one in real life would even know you wrote poetry.

It’s weird, yes, but also right. Very right.

It feels good to be seen. For once.

~

The office Christmas party is going strong.

There’s a kind of end-of-the-world vibe floating around and people look tipsier and more affectionate than usual.

I don’t know whether to be terrified or appreciative that I could work and live in Crema - such a quaint, lovely town - for so long. I’ve been polishing my resume and even ventured to explore Milan the past weekend, looking at rent rates and neighborhoods that are affordable without being risky.

Isola’s rags to riches story is quite inspiring, it would be a nice place to relocate to. But I fear money can be an issue.

As I look at my collegues, I wonder what the new year will bring us. For now, we only know that a meeting has been scheduled with the worker’s union to explore possible scenarios.

As for my boss, he’s dancing and singing at the top of his lungs with Sara, shaking his hips in time with the music in a way that I find decidedly distracting.

I smile as I notice how different things are now that he’s thawed out.

In the beginning he had isolated himself, trying to suppress his mounting emotions, accidentally setting off an eternal winter that…

_Wait. That’s Elsa from Frozen, not Teemo-tay._

I shake my head. He was never really at risk of becoming a monster, he was just behaving like an asshole.

Which is almost difficult to believe now that he has a ridiculous inflatable crown on - the prize he won in our white elephant gift exchange - and leading a kinda Irish jig that has everyone hopping around like rabbits.

Speaking of elephants… I wished he had randomly picked up my gift, a pair of red (for luck) underwear that I bought at the town market. A sparkly affair of a thong with an elephant _pun intended_ in whose trunk you should insert your… *ahem*

It went to Lidia from shipping, instead. I have no doubts her poor husband will have to sport the offending crap at their Capodanno dinner. She’s superstitious like that.

He tries to invite me to dance, of course, and I obviously refuse. I’m too big and clumsy to move like he does.

And I prefer to stay a bit far anyways, to admire him as he twirls and rolls his shoulders. I nurse my vodka slowly, don’t want to get drunk and lose a minute of his shenanigans just because I have my head in the toilet bowl.

I want to ask him if he has plans for Christmas, whether going back home or visiting his sister in Paris. I don’t like the idea of him being alone for the holidays, maybe we could hang together after all. Our pets don’t hate each other, we discovered.

We could go for a walk - the countryside here is magical with the snow-covered fields. The Fontanile’s water will be icy cold (it is even in summer).

Yeah, we could go for a stroll when the snow is falling, Pepper in her puff vest harness, Archie in his tartan trench – and then come back home for hot chocolate and a Netflix marathon on the sofa, under a woolen blanket and…

“I can here you thinking from there”, he says, a smirk on his face. “Pleasant thoughts, I suppose”.

His eyes are focused on my crotch and I shudder when I notice I’m sporting a semi. Talk about inopportune timing.

“Uhm? I…”, I stutter and try to back away but his hand goes to my chest, hovers on the heart as if asking for permission to touch, then just presses over it.

And presses and presses. Strongly.

It takes me some time to figure that he’s actually pushing me towards the entrance of the meeting room. There, he stops.

I’ve walked backwards, lost in his amazing, green eyes so I almost stumble and he keeps me steady gripping my hideous Christmas sweater.

“Je veux te baiser”, he whispers, licking his lips. “Me laisseras-tu t'embrasser?” And he points to the mistletoe on the doorway.

“Uh?”. My throat is dry and I’m unable to speak.

He gets on his tiptoe, not that he really needs it, he’s almost as tall as I am, and murmurs a “J’ai besoin de t'embrasser. Dès la première fois que je t'ai vu" to my ear.

Now.

I don’t know what the heck he’s saying.

I don’t know if it’s his hot breath on the shell of my ear or the fact that he’s talking in French to me - and we all know that everyone likes the French (look at their food, fashion, sensual-sounding language, people !)

I mean, I like everything French, especially French people, or better yet the men, yes, young men, ok, one young man, Timothée.

I like Teemo-tay.

Teemo-tay, Timmo, Timmy, Tim.

Yes, I like him. A lot.

So I try to react like the grown-up I supposedly am and somehow answer what it looks like to be some kind of sensual proposition he’s making - hope I’m reading this correctly - but my brains provides only words like croissant, baguette, Tour Eiffel, Citroën…

Fuck. I’m pretty sure there’s something else I could manage to croak when my speech ability resurfaces.

“Est-ce que tu veux coucher avec moi?”, he whispers three inches from my face.

Yeah, coucher! That’s sounds like something I could say to him and…

Wait a minute, the fuck is happening here?!

I furrow my brows and look at him – is he drunk or high or-?

Actually, I haven’t see him drink much all night, I know cause I’ve been keeping an eye on him. That’s what a conscientious employee does, right?

He must notice my austere gaze because he blushes and gets embarassed and I can see he’s trying to conceive a way to make it seem like a joke or sum up the courage to say sorry for hitting on me and-

_Oh, no, fuck no. No, no, no._

I won’t lose this chance now that I’m positive he’s not drunk.

So I grab him by his equally hideous sweater, check for the location of the mistletoe and smash my lips on his in a big, sloppy, wet kiss that is anything but sexy.

But he’s grinning as I release him and he throws himself back at me, basically climbing me like a tree.

Sara hoots and the whole gang gasps and laughs. I’m pretty sure I see money exchanged between hands.

He smiles at me, I smile at him.

Merry Christmas indeed!

Later that night, he’s bouncing on my cock - worrying his lower lip with his teeth as he chases his pleasure - and I graze his nipples and he wails and I start thrusting harder, feet planted on the floor (we didn’t even get to the bed), and I feel his muscles flutter around my cock and it sends me over the edge and I’m grunting as I empty myself in him while he explodes and coats my chest with his seed.

_Fuck._

I start patting around for a blanket, but Tim stops me.

“Let’s stay like this a little more”, he says.

We are all sweaty and sticky.

The wooden floor is hell for my back.

Pepper and Archie are probably destroying the flat.

I grin and hug him to my chest.

It’s not bad. Not bad at all.


End file.
